


there's only one you (and I wouldn't trade you for anything)

by thelostcolony



Series: Nothing I've Ever Known [1]
Category: Marvel, Spider-Man - Fandom, daredevil - Fandom
Genre: Dead Aunt May, I apologize for the many inside jokes that I have incorporated, Just accept them as they are and move on, Other, for angie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5534663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostcolony/pseuds/thelostcolony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are instances where Matt wishes that he had picked up some of those parenting books that Foggy gave him. These would be some of those times.</p><p>Or: The Many Times Matt Has Questioned His Qualifications For Guardianship and the Time He Thought He Was Doing Something Right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's only one you (and I wouldn't trade you for anything)

1)

Matt tucked the blanket up around Peter's neck best he could, his hands hovering for a moment---before he finally gave into the impulse to brush a strand of hair off of Peter's forehead. (He wasn't soft. He wasn't.) 

(It was just that Peter was young, and alone, and Matt knew intimately how it felt to be young and alone and how it was to carry around the fact that there wasn't a soul alive to care about you anymore.)

So that was the sole reason he settled down on the couch opposite Peter in the pressing silence of 2am. And before the thought of how he'd never sleep could even cross his mind (before the Devil inside him could wake up and roar and show him just how alone he _wasn't)_ , the low hum of the billboard across the way and Peter’s slow, even breathing had already lulled him to sleep.

He woke to an off-key voice trying to hit the high notes of terrible pop tunes, the clanging of pots and pans, and the smell of something burning.

"Hope you like your pancakes crispy!" Peter announced cheerfully, not a trace of the melancholy of last night in sight, and plopped a rock hard pancake onto the plate in front of Matt.

And then he laughed his ass off at the look on Matt's face.

"Peter."

 

2)

“Peter,” Matt groaned, and held a hand to his aching forehead (aching more with regret than real pain---though it was a near thing). “Peter, turn it _off.”_

 _"Nope!”_ Peter crowed, holding the phone above his head and placing a hand against the wall. “Nope nope nope! You wanted this to happen, you got me the thing _and_ you programmed it!”

 _Well if he'd known it would lead to such torture, he wouldn't have bothered in the first place,_ he wanted to snap---swallowed it just before it broke past his lips (just in the nick of time). Taking a deep, steadying breath, Matt repeated, "Peter," with all the authority he could press into his voice---

But Peter threw back his head, cackling madly as he pushed himself up the wall to hang upside down from the ceiling.

_“Peter!”_

_"If only you saw what I could see-”_

“Peter, please,” Matt finally pleaded, no longer, seemingly, above begging.

 _“You’d understand why I want you so desperately!”_ _  
_

“Peter, if you don’t shut up right now I swear I’ll-”

_“Whoaaaa oooh, THAT’S WHAT MAKES YOU BEAUTIFUL!”_

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. It.

It was only seven o'clock in the morning.

"...Peter, why.”

 

3)    

“Wow,” Peter muttered as he hauled Matt through the window, grunting with the effort. “What are you eating these days?”

“Peter,” Matt grumbled, mostly to shut him up (though Matt was too polite to say, which was the greatest because it meant Peter could ramble as much as he wanted to without Matt actually telling him off for it).

“Seriously,” Peter continued, because he blathered when he was nervous and Matt was hurt and he was panicking just a little bit and he could get away with babbling around Matt. “Like, what have you been eating, Wheaties? Because you’ve definitely gotten heavier since I last carried you!”

“If I’m recalling correctly,” Matt grunted, hitting his knee against the windowsill as he clambered through, “I carried _you_ last time.”

“No. False,” Peter said as he lowered Matt to the couch. “I have no recollection of it and, thus, it never happened. Heavy _and_ senile in your old age, what a shame.”

“You were too busy being injured, concussed, and a complete and utter idiot, to remember," Matt said, tone biting and bitter.

“One of these things is not like the others,” Peter muttered, snarky but unoffended. "But at least _I_ was never stupid enough to break my foot climbing out of a dumpster, O Frightening Devil of Hell's Kitchen."

 

4)

“Matt Matt Matt Matt!” Peter shouted as he stormed into Matt’s apartment, the door slamming against the wall and nearly coming off it’s hinges (on purpose, Matt suspected, just because Peter was a certified little shit). “Matt, Matt guess what!”

“You finally managed to wrench the door from its hinges?" Matt asked without bothering to look up from his case file. "Sure sounded like you managed it this time."

“No, but one of these days I'm gonna yank it off on purpose just because you won't shut up about it,” Peter said, tone frighteningly blasé---though Matt didn't have the chance to respond to it before Peter was talking again. "Foggy and I got a box," he said as he opened the front door, reached around, and grabbed what sounded like a suspiciously large carboard box. "A cardboard one. Guess what it's filled with?" 

"Please tell me it's the parenting books Foggy ordered me even though I said I didn't need them. Please."

Peter took a deep breath. "It. Is filled. With bagels." He sounded like a spy who had just managed to successfully complete some sort of deadly secret mission---which, actually? Matt could believe.

Peter and Foggy had been threatening to do this for some time now--- but Matt hadn't actually _believed_ they would. And there was no way the two of them paid for the box of bagels themselves, which meant Matt's wallet needed to be tended to. Again.

Matt turned around and took a deep breath, reaching into his refrigerator. He popped the cap off the beer he had hoped to save for later, took a long sip, and finally said, “that’s nice, Peter.”

 

5)    

“Peter, please,” Matt pleaded---now, officially, not above begging. “Be quiet.”

  
Peter threw the basketball against the concrete wall of Matt’s apartment once more, seemingly taking joy from the plastic-y _thwomp_ noise that resulted. Matt wasn't exactly experiencing a headache, per se---but his senses were out of whack, as if every bounce of the ball was bouncing his concentration out of place along with it. 

Matt took a deep, steadying breath. "I’m actually trying to get some work done to, y’know, _pay_ for the apartment we live in. Instead of uselessly bouncing the basketball, why don’t you go get your camera and take some pictures for the Bugle?” Wasn't that what teenagers liked---earning money on the side ?

(And it would get Peter out of the house for something other than patrol, which was one of Matt's more primary concerns. Until legal guardianship cleared up, Peter couldn't go back to school, but that didn't mean he couldn't go out at all.

The chances of Peter being recognized in a city like New York City were slim to none. Plenty of boys had brown hair and brown eyes and Peter's build, Matt told himself, but it couldn't stop the panicked thrum of his heart against his ribcage.

Besides; if Peter was caught, Matt could lawyer his way out of it on a bad day. But still, it was---the fear of it that made his mouth go dry. That Peter could be taken and recognized at all in spite of everything.)

Peter was speaking. “---and I don't want to see Jolly Jonah's face on a good day, let alone----”

Matt sighed.

Pick your battles, right? 

But as he turned back to his case files, the bouncing stopped.

 

6)   

“Ow!”

“Oh, stop it,” Matt scowled, dabbing more antiseptic onto Peter’s wounds with a cotton ball, the sharp, coppery smell of blood guiding him. “It can’t hurt that bad.”

“No wonder they call you the Devil,” Peter accused, hissing when Matt pressed more firmly on the oozing gash in his side. “You use the antiseptic from hell!”

"It’s Peroxide, Peter,” Matt said patiently, and poured a little more directly onto the wound. It was shallow but inflicted with a blade rustier than Foggy’s language skills, and Matt wanted to avoid any sort of infection before Peter stitched himself closed.

As much as he harped (and Foggy said he was annoying (that was a lie; Foggy secretly loved Peter)), Matt never wanted to see Peter hurt. He continued, “and it’s going to keep you alive, so sit still.”

Peter stiffened. “You’d be moving too, if you knew how uncomfortable this was,” he said. “It’s like getting third degree burns.”

Matt threw back his head and laughed. "Sure, Peter," he humored, and poured more as he listened to Peter's skin sizzle. "Sure."

 

_7)_

Matt clambered in through the window, wincing at the pain that flared throughout his body as he forced his limbs to cooperate. His brain was throbbing from extending his senses so much and a blow he took to the head, but he wasn't sure which was causing more pain.

He almost just headed straight to bed---concussion watch be damned, because Matt truly wasn't in the mood right now to deal with his phone or Foggy's ranting or even Claire's quiet, rebuking tisks. He nearly did it, nearly convinced himself that would be the easiest thing--- but then there was a hitch of a sob, and the world came grinding to a halt.

Heartbeat. Light. No wisp. Not Foggy. Peter.

"Peter?"

He didn't expect to get an armful of teenager but he did, and he only had the presence of mind to pull Peter close and try to soothe away the stutter in Peter's breathing, the tremble to his lips. Peter said nothing, just clung and shuddered and choked on sobs, and Matt held him, and there was nothing else he could do.

He wished Peter could tell him what was wrong, what caused these bouts of hysterics--- but he also knew that this was how Peter worked. Peter worked in small doses of comfort and large doses of freedom, using sarcasm and snark to cover most of his suffering. There were so many quips. Sometimes, Peter ran out.

This was the first time, however, he had run to Matt when it happened.

Matt forgot about his head wound entirely despite the pain and wished, for only a moment, that he had courage enough to murmur reassurances---but only a moment. That wasn't how he and Peter worked.

Peter's sobs eased, the grief and rage and pain loosening their grip long enough for him to regain a little control of himself. His heart fluttered in shame, drooped in the dread of the questions sure to come. But Matt, sounding completely unperturbed, said, "it's good that you're here--- I've got a splitting headache and I'm not in the mood to make the commute to my medicine cabinet." 

Peter blinked in surprise and shuffled off without a word, and returned a few moments later with painkillers and a glass of water. He pressed those into Matt's hand along with a warmed box of leftover chinese that Matt had been saving, and curled up on the couch.

Matt fell asleep to Peter's heartbeat, too loud and fast to be sleeping but lulling enough to allow Matt some rest.

(Matt was tired enough that he didn't realize until much later that he had gotten the concussion watch he'd convinced himself out of in the first place.)

8)

Matt was eavesdropping. He freely admitted it.

It wasn't for himself, though- (okay, maybe a little, but it wasn't as if he needed to admit that to anyone). It was for Peter. He had a right to be concerned- it would have been enough if some SHIELD agent had mysteriously shown up on his doorstep, but a mysterious SHIELD agent asking for his young charge? Well, that was simply worrisome. Matt was taking the right precautions against anything that could happen. He doubted that they didn’t know Peter’s identity- SHIElD had many ways of finding such things out- but how had they known that Peter was living with Matt? Were they tracking him?

Matt was determined to find out.

“What are you going to do?” Peter asked, voice lowered in concern as he met Clint’s eyes.

Clint grinned and ruffled Peter’s hair. “Thanks for the concern, Spidey-kid,” he said, and winked. “But I think I got the Tracksuit Mafia covered.”

“No no,” Peter said, and Matt could hear the roll of his eyes in his voice, “I know that, I’m not worried about that. I’m worried that I missed like, a Superheroes Society meeting- how does everyone know who I am? Is there like a superhero coming out day that I keep missing, what-”

Matt couldn't help it.

He burst out laughing.

9)

“Come on, Matt,” Peter wheedled. “You need something to have your clients keep track of you with.”

“They can come find me at the office just fine,” Matt dismissed and could sense Peter’s shoulders shifting as he sighed.

“Peter’s got a point, Matt,” Foggy suggested from the kitchen where he was pouring himself a glass of milk. “Kid’s not half bad at this ‘advertisement’ thing.”

“We’re doing just fine, Foggy,” Matt pointed out, and Peter gestured grandly with his hands, waving them about.

“There. That. You’re doing _fine_ .” Peter took a deep breath, and Matt sensed the smile crawling across Peter’s face. “You’re doing _mediocre_ . You _could_ be doing _great_ . But nah, it’s okay. You’re doing _fine_ . Just... _just_ fine.”

Matt sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He knew he was going to regret this. “Fine,” Matt acquiesced. “Fine. What do you have in mind?”

Peter grinned triumphantly. “A website, or a Facebook page,” he suggested. “Something memorable, something...Something funny or that stands out.”

“Like Avocados at Law!” Foggy exclaimed, head in the freezer. He was looking for ice cream. Matt had none.

Peter brightened just as Matt was saying, “no, definitely not,” before the teenager could get any ideas as to what to make the site title or the blog title or whatever.

“Fine, but it still has to be something catchy or something,” Peter grumbled, his fingers _clack-clacking_ against the keyboard.

“I got it!” Foggy exploded, rising from the freezer.

“Ice cream?” Asked Peter hopefully, straightening slightly.

“No, Matt has none,” Foggy said, then shok his head and said, “but no, not that! I have the username!” He paused for dramatic effect, drew it out, and then: “DeliciousBelieverMoon.”

Peter cackled, and Matt sighed. He had no clue where Foggy had gotten the horrible name, but it was without a doubt an inside joke between Peter and Foggy, and there was only so much Matt could deal with during a day.

H knew he was saving it for later, but he wished he had a beer.

10)

It’s about three A.M. when Matt quietly blinks himself awake, a presence at the foot of his bed enough to have him alert and sitting up before he has any time to process who or what it is. He adjusts to his surroundings, gets his equilibrium, and the heartbeat that thuds through his ears is soft and familiar.

“Peter,” he says softly, and the teenager shudders, fisting in a handful of Matt’s sheets. He’s grounding himself, keeping himself in Matt’s room, making sure his mind doesn’t whisk him away.  His shoulders hitch in the unmistakable way of a sob.

Matt sits up straighter, a little more awake, and throws back the covers. He says nothing, only opens his arm, and Peter doesn’t hesitate as he ducks under it and tucks himself into Matt’s side, muffled sobbing coming from Matt’s shoulder. His nightshirt is getting wet with Peter’s tears. Matt doesn’t care.

He doesn’t know what to say to soothe Peter, doesn’t know how to possible make things better, so he just tucks Peter’s head against his heart and holds him, keeping him wrapped up and safe against all the world.

“Thank you, Matt,” Peter breathes against his collarbone. Matt wouldn’t’ve even known Peter had spoken if not for Peter’s lips brushing against his skin. “Thank you.”

Matt doesn’t know what to say, but they don’t need to say things to each other to understand. So Matt just tucks Peter close and lends his body heat and gives all the comfort he knows how.

In the morning, Peter wakes to Matt vibrantly singing One Direction, the clang of pots and pans, and the smell of something burning.

“Better like your pancakes crispy,” Matt advises as he plops a rock hard pancake onto the plate in front of Peter. “I’m not making you another one.”

He can’t see Peter’s impression, but he can imagine the indignance of it well enough that he can almost do so, laughing his ass off at the look he’s imagining.

Peter laughs too, and Matt thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's doing something right.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and please leave me a comment on your thoughts!
> 
> To Angie: Merry Christmas, Matt. I know we have each other's backs, but it feels like you're always watching mine, and for that I'm immensely grateful. So thank you. I don't know what I did to deserve you as a best friend, but I'm glad you're here. You're my very best friend.


End file.
